


Mon Cœur Glacé

by mythstoorfoot



Category: Enslaved: Odyssey to the West
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythstoorfoot/pseuds/mythstoorfoot
Summary: My frozen heart, melting for you. As Monkey and Trip make their way across the desecrated landscape of North America, the strangest of emotions begin to overwhelm them... A collection of short vignettes centred on their relationship. Spoilers!





	1. The Old City

**Author's Note:**

> So here I am, trying my hand at some Enslaved fanfic, which is not an easy task when your source material is already so close to perfection. I'm going to be focusing on little random moments between Monkey and Trip - jumping between various parts of their journey as I see fit - which highlight their growing relationship, as well as all the problems they must face living in a post-apocalyptic world. Timing is a pretty tricky thing in this game; the odyssey probably only takes a maximum of four days or so, but for the purposes of this fanfic, let's say it's at least a few weeks. I've got several ideas, so expect a number of chapters of varying length. (: Of course, lots of spoilers from here on in. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> "Mon cœur glacé" is a French lyric from the wonderful song No Death In Love, played during the ending credits of Enslaved. It translates to "my frozen heart".

It was odd living in the shadow of a fallen civilization. Or rather, it would have been odd were this shadow not so all-encompassing, so omnipresent. You do not think about that which you observe every day.

Monkey found that most people tried their best to not dwell on such things, tried their hardest to live quiet uneventful lives even though each moment was brimming with unspoken threat. But Monkey knew: there was no use in running or hiding. He had learnt to face his threats head-on, so they couldn't sneak up behind him like elusive phantoms.

They called this place the Old City, and although Monkey had never seen it with his own eyes before, he had heard whispers of it. People across the land spoke sometimes of the Old City. There were other ruins like it, apparently, but this one was the largest and most grandiose. Monkey could not fathom the perfected expertise and enormous manpower required to construct a single metropolis, let alone multiples of them. Who knew how much of this endless land humans had once conquered.

The Old City was disgusting and bewitching, divine and hellish. It was overrun with deadly machinery but overgrown with lush jungle. It did not seem to care that it was so obviously in contradiction of itself, that it was an abomination for life and death to exist together in such close confinement. The city cared for itself only, and was not welcoming to strangers. It would trick and beguile, it would entice and confuse, yet never would it fully reveal its secrets. Perhaps it was better for some things to remain buried.

Travelling against such a backdrop, Monkey felt that the environment was leaching into him, spawning a similar mix of opposing emotions. He could not feel anger towards his captor, the red-headed girl with the soul-pool eyes. Frustration occasionally, yes; but he understood her motives far too well for real anger. Truth be told, he knew that in her situation he would have done the same thing. Survival was all that mattered. It was simply his bad fortune to be the captured one. Monkey did not like to attempt to change things he had no way of changing – he preferred to get on with the job, get the girl home, fulfil his task. Perhaps it was this straightforward single-mindedness which caused people to call him Monkey, simple Monkey. Let them call him what they wanted. Monkey did not care.

Trip was smart in a technological way, quick when faced with wires and bolts and rusted metal. But Monkey was smart in a Monkey way, in a way that involved being acutely aware of his surroundings, being alert and agile, able to cling to debris with a nimbleness surprising for his size.

Over the course of time he had learnt to handle his fear and utilise it as a tool. Adrenaline could change the course of battle. Whether fighting mechs or clutching a crumbling foothold, Monkey knew he had to embrace his speeding heartbeat: let this overwhelming drive be a part of you, and then use it, force it to push you further and further. There was no use in panic. Better to look ahead steadily and leap boldly into the abyss.

He could not give up, because he had to save himself and save Trip. Save Trip. He never knew his pulse could beat so fast till the moment she was hanging from a ledge, slipping, screaming, falling, falling. He could not allow anything to happen to her. This was his duty.

Trip was a strange creature. Like the vines which climbed and flourished upon the skeletons of a broken civilization, she existed as a bastion of beauty in a perilous land. It was strange to neither expect nor require companionship, to scour the world as an eternal outsider, and then abruptly be tied to another human being for an uncertain period of time. Monkey knew he would endure this life alone: he could not trust people, and reclusion was the best way to stay alive. He had come to terms with it. So then, how to deal with someone who inadvertently, inexplicably, exasperatingly, became to him – he could think of no other word – a friend? In this world friendship was a token of a bygone era. People were not _friends_  – they bartered, traded information, made impromptu alliances perhaps. Anyone fool enough to trust the bond of friendship would be long dead by now. And yet there was a warmth to it, an uncomfortable comfort to which Monkey did not rightly know how to respond. Humans were made to be social. What else could he do but hold onto this one glimpse of kindliness, this single tender link in a vast existence of solitude, as weak and frail and sacred as a fresh bud struggling towards the light? By all rights he should want to kill her. It was all very awkward, Monkey thought.

Monkey did not have a lot of time for thinking between waves of mechs, but when he did, he thought about Trip. When he had a spare moment, when she was busy scanning the route ahead or planning their next move, he relaxed his muscles as much as he dared and hunkered down amidst the swaying grasses of this ancient city. He would watch her fixing the dragonfly in her hair or checking schematics with her holographic armband. How the hell did that thing work? She had a strange way of swaying her hips, like the long grasses, an action which seemed to have no practical purpose. Monkey did not know people well enough to distinguish if the things he noticed were typical to all humans, or just quirks belonging to Trip.

Once, whilst they were walking together, she stopped and bent over to pick up a flower blossoming amidst the bones of a broken old vehicle. He turned back to see her with a look on her face like the rising sun. He was struck hard, like a blow to the chest, with the realisation of just how young she was. Monkey wasn't technically  _old_  - few lived long enough to develop grey hairs or withered skin - but he was old enough to realise that, in such a world as theirs, each of his days was a blessing. People lived young and died young, only wishing to grow old enough to produce offspring. Monkey was something of an anomaly. Trip was all untainted skin and the glow of youth, eager and hopeful, and he was covered in battle scars from mechs.

When they spoke, he could almost see the cogs turning in her brain, her thinking as she decided on how to best address him, in exactly which manner and pitch. She was his captor. She had no real emotional attachment to him; she had enslaved him and forced him to do her bidding. But there seemed to be something in Trip, a compassion probably born from an upbringing in a sheltered village community, which caused her to exhibit an irrational gentleness to people. Even to Monkey - even to her slave.

There was a quiet, apologetic tendency in her voice, like she was almost regretful of having to place the headband on his head. Worry in her tone when he lost his grip. He could hear the quavering of subtle emotions he could not place.

What on earth did that mean?

He remembered the first time she spoke his name. "You know, Monkey…" Pretending that he hadn't just told her a moment before. Like she'd known it her whole life. Trying to be friendly, to encourage trust. Why would she do that? He'd never really called himself by anything before - that was what other people did. There had been no need. But now he thought it to himself more often, repeating it under his breath. Monkey, Monkey. Was there an elusive power to it, knowing your entire existence could be condensed into a single word, like the history of an entire race was compacted into these bare metallic carcasses?  _Monkey_. Maybe more than just a name.

It was so unreal to think that at one time thousands of humans, or even more, had lived all together in one city. How long ago could that be? It felt impossible. What connections did they share with these undefined people of the past? Did they speak the same language, did they look the same? When he touched the side of a decaying building, was he mirroring the actions of an ancient man from hundreds of years ago? What war could be catastrophic enough to push the reset button on an entire civilization? Monkey wondered if Trip thought these things too.

Sometimes Monkey felt remorseful. It was worst when they happened across sections of intact rooms, the air still heavy with memories of life, clinging to a long-lost past. Air which perhaps had not been disturbed in hundreds of years. Rows of chairs, rows upon rows. If so many people could fit in here, how many would there be in an entire city? Where did their bodies go? Did they become ash, swept away on the wind, or did they fall back into the earth? Trip would stop and brush the back of a chair with her fingertips - Monkey would carry on. But he could not stop the deep sadness from penetrating his heart.

Perhaps the artifacts they came across would reveal something about these archaic peoples, if only they could decipher them. Monkey once saw a small metal object glinting in the sun, on the dusty ground. Foliage had grown up all around it. It was cylindrical, thin, tiny in his fingers. When he pushed one end a small point emerged from the other, but it appeared to have no other function. Another time he nearly stepped upon a circular disk, rounded like his cloud with a hole in the centre. But this disk shone silver like the stars - as he stopped to pick it up he saw reflected in its surface a rainbow, so pristine and lucid that it was like staring perfection in the face. Surely only the most advanced technology could create something so beautiful. Even Trip shook her head in bewilderment.

Trip could read, although Monkey could not. Sometimes they would pause so she could attempt to decode the various messages they found scattered around the city. She said that the writings of the Old People were a little different to the ones used today, though they had definitely been related at one point. She knew some words well enough that she could distinguish them without trying: fire, eject, stop.

"So what does it say?"

"Just a minute." She cocked her head to one side and silently mouthed the words, getting a grip on their weight, their meaning. "The first word is definitely  _stop_. After that,  _the_ , that one's easy. The last one is w… wor? War?  _Stop the war_."

"Stop the war." Monkey's voice was gravelly. When Trip looked over at him there was a softness in his blue eyes, behind the aggressively crimson paint, behind the isolation, behind the mask.

She stood up and held out her hand to him. "Come on, Monkey." It was less of a demand, more of a kindness. He grasped her palm, his massive hand dwarfing hers, and got to his feet. He turned to allow her to climb onto his back. When he carried her she could feel all his muscles rippling under her arms, pure energy from a man as dynamic as the racing clouds. Trip was in awe of Monkey. She wished she could be like him - so self-sufficient, a perfect machine built for survival and protection. She wished she knew how to defend herself, so she did not have to force others to defend her. So she would have no need to enslave.

Monkey knew he was a being forged of tendons and flesh. He had no skills other than the ability to remain alive. He was not like Trip, full of potential and possibilities. He knew that behind his wall of muscle he was just another beating heart, like all those others which had been thoughtlessly extinguished in this ghost of a city.

The phantoms… they followed them through this place.

One day Monkey found a ring abandoned close by a doorway, impossible to miss as the sunlight bounced off it. He took it gingerly, tracing its silver pattern and its inlaid stone of deep red. This was the first object he had found in the city which he could identify and name. It was a most curious sentiment, and he felt his chest expand unexpectedly. Here was a connection to the Old People: a small shining link enduring time, warfare, destruction.

"Trip? C'mere."

She came to him from an adjoining room, eyebrows inquiring.

"Look what I found."

He passed it to her, and their fingers grazed. She took the object in both hands and raised it close to her eyes, turning it in her fingers. "It's… a ring." Trip looked back at him, a myriad of emotions passing over her face, glinting flecks in her eyes, and Monkey could see she understood.

"Yeah. You should keep it," he said.

A shadow crossed her features. She shook her head, tried to hide the sudden strangulation of her voice. "I can't keep it, Monkey… this belonged to someone once. It would be like… stealing." She attempted to say something more, but the words wouldn't come. "Please. Leave things as they are." As she left, the ring fell from her fingers. It hit the mossy floor with a muffled clink.

Monkey stood there for some time, his eyes fixed on the ring. The sun moved through a canopy of leaves and cast a heavy beam of light through a shattered window, illuminating every corner of the antiquated room until each surface gleamed with a thousand memories. He wondered when the phantoms would leave them. In truth, he knew they never would.


	2. The Mechs

It was when fighting mechs that the anger overtook Monkey.

They had come far too close to Trip this time. He had been preoccupied, fenced into a corner by a legion of mechanical monstrosities. With each thunderous strike of the staff he grew more furious, more aflame, doused in mech oil and beaded with sweat. As he built up a natural rhythm the blows came more easily, and it was simple to fight an enemy who you had loathed your entire life, who had taken everything from you, and all he had to do was think of the slavers, his parents, Trip.

When he'd finished they lay twitching around him in a mound of searing metal.

" _Monkey!_ " Her shriek pierced the air, ghastly.

He spun and leapt towards the sound of her voice, bounding across the ground faster even than the blood pounding in his ears, vision blurred but clear enough to see the three machines crowding around her. The nearest one grabbed her by the arm and lifted her straight into the air like she was as fragile as feathers; Monkey made a frantic and involuntary noise in his throat, but he was still too far away. The mech shook her until she screamed. He could see her flailing, trying desperately to set off her EMP. It was going to cut her. He was almost upon them now - so close, so goddamned close, Trip I'm nearly there - and the roaring in his mind increased until there was nothing else but the desire to slaughter.

He rained down fire and a whirling mass of death. In one almighty blow the mech holding Trip was carved in two, oil spraying from the severed deformity in an uncanny imitation of blood. As Monkey fell to the ground he knocked back the other two, and when they were hurled away from him, dazed, he hit them hard enough to disable their internal wiring and detach their heads from the rest of their bodies.

Monkey stood in the midst of the carnage. He hadn't realised that he had been yelling. He was panting, aching, a stone-cold mech murderer, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Are you hurt? Trip?" He dropped to his knees, oil pooling all around him, and placed both hands on her shoulders. "Trip, are you hurt?"

She was curled into a ball. At first he thought she was trembling and shuddering, but then he realised she was shaking her head. He had smeared some mech oil onto her bare arms. It wasn't blood, no. She wasn't harmed.

"Oh, god," he breathed. "Shit."

"That was close," was all she could manage, quiet and unsteady.

The relief was overwhelming. He rested his head upon her shoulder, a spontaneous reflex of gratitude and closeness and the realisation of how near he had been to losing it all. She smelt how he imagined comfort should smell.

"They found me. They found where I was hiding. I'm… I'm putting us both in danger. I'm so sorry, Monkey. I'm sorry it has to be this way." She found it difficult to talk, and her voice stuck hard in her throat. The guilt Monkey heard there pained him.

He pulled back to look at her, silencing her with his firm stare. He was so close he could make out dust and sweat in the corners of her face, a single thread of garnet hair in front of her eyes, vulnerability and great strength in that honest gaze. She did not blink. The arch of an ancient building shaded them and a whisper of a breeze wafted the grass around their feet. They kneeled together in the grime and oil and mech parts, two strangers suddenly not so much like strangers anymore. He wanted to sweep away the strand of hair with his hand. He did not.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he said.

Then he got to his feet and helped her up. They didn't quite meet each other's eyes. Trip said something about scanning their course and ran ahead, Monkey following after her, always following.


	3. The Deer

It must have been two days after their escape from the slaver ship before Monkey realised that he was starving. On the ship the slaves had been fed scraps, but there was no food in this abandoned city. Monkey was accustomed to long periods without sustenance in the wilds, his stomach almost as hardened as his palms, but even he was finding it hard to ignore the craving for some form of nourishment. He couldn't believe the girl hadn't mentioned it.

She was walking ahead of him now, her head high as she scanned the edges of buildings towering far above. In this area of the city a forest had sprung up, with trees growing in and around the shells of decrepit structures, supporting the walls, and vines suspended from the upper heights. A litter of red and orange leaves fell silently to earth. They brushed past Monkey's face and caught in Trip's hair, as though encouraging them on their way.

"Uh… Trip?"

She turned back to face him, eyes alert with questions.

"I think we need to find something to eat."

She glanced away with the hint of a smile and dipped her head, almost looking embarrassed. "I was hoping you'd say something."

Some distance away, through the valley of superstructures craning towards the heavens, was a cleared area which the undergrowth had claimed as its own. It was one of the few places in the Old City which appeared to have been untouched by humans. No ruins crowded here; no ancient artifacts lay strewn across the ground. Some areas were partly flooded, where marshy swamplands attracted insects and swelled inexorably into portions of submerged buildings. Why such a large, central region of the city had been left vacant neither Monkey nor Trip could say.

Animals had reclaimed the territory since the Old People had left. Great droves of birds, perhaps hundreds of them or more, took wing at the unexpected sound of footfalls, bursting through the forest canopy in a flock of silver amidst the green. Monkey could see different types of animal print in the damp ground, although he could not name them all. Small creatures hurried out of sight as they approached, flashing reflective eyes, unused to and unnerved by the human presence.

It was the deer Monkey was most interested in. He spotted them through the trees and froze; placed an arm on Trip's shoulder so she would do the same. The herd moved together in an illusive cluster, all elegant necks and slender legs, barely visible through the mottled greenery. It took her a moment to catch sight of them.

He was completely still, speaking at a controlled volume, all of his energy contained in quivering suspension. She stood motionless at his side. His hand was warm and firm on her shoulder.

"We'll need to work together to catch one."

She blinked, her eyes following the deer. "Okay. Tell me what to do."

"I need you to drive them over here…" As Monkey explained under his breath the flighty animals were already moving on, creeping further into the forest and vanishing amongst dark olive shadows. Even when she could no longer see them his hand remained for a moment, burning heavy promises into her skin.

Trip left him with the pledge to return immediately at the sight of any mechs. First she sent the dragonfly high into the air, where it flitted contentedly above the trees and kept its mechanical eye focused on the moving herd. Although Trip couldn't see the visual feedback, Monkey would be able to observe the locations of both her and the deer and direct her accordingly. She set off into the temperate jungle, scrambling over mossy rocks and gnarled roots, curving her path so as to avoid alarming the skittish creatures. She only looked back once. Monkey was already out of sight.

As she went the forest grew denser and thicker, until the hum of silence pressed down upon her like a cloak. Trip took confidence from the fact that the trees had grown closer together: mechs would not be able to pass through.

Meanwhile, Monkey remained at the edge of the woodland. He leapt around a murky pool of still water to the misshapen base of a large and many-branched tree, bent towards the lagoon as if scrutinising its own reflection, and covered so thoroughly by leaves and vines and moss that barely any bark was visible. It must have been here since the time of the Old People. He climbed the tree in several large bounds, scaling its heights with remarkable speed and dexterity. Hanging from a bough, he could see some way into the shadowy forest beyond, where Trip's outline was illuminated in a digital green glow. Visible also was the indicator for the herd of deer. Monkey positioned himself so he could crouch comfortably upon a thick limb, camouflaged by the oddly joyous foliage of the lush tree. The leaves coloured his vision with emerald and viridian. Narrowing his eyes, he tracked Trip as she moved through the great ocean of green, already regretting the decision for her to venture alone into the forest without defence or protection. He supposed hunger made him think irrational, hungry thoughts.

The quiet crackle of static alerted Trip to the audio link she shared with her gruff partner. Out of the deep hush, Monkey's voice filled her head. "Not too far, Trip."

She huffed as she clambered over a fallen tree. "Thank you, Monkey."

"Hey, I don't want this headband activating its death ray just because you took one step too many!" He sounded a little touchy about the whole thing. "Okay, the herd is directly to your left. Go and scare them this way."

Trip dropped to her knees and snuck through the thick shrubbery, inching forwards with measured precision. Small branches scratched at her bare skin.

"Just a little further… can you see them?"

"Yes," breathed Trip.

Suddenly they were before her, only the width of a few trees separating them from her heavy breathing. There must have been at least fifteen of the creatures. Trip watched, still as the statues she had seen in the Old City, fortuitously hidden behind a log blossoming with pale red flowers. The deer were grazing silently. Their large and thoughtful eyes were black stones gazing far off into the forest. Closest to her was a great stag and its child, who nuzzled the lean legs of its parent as they foraged the woodland floor. The young one was all speckled with white. Trip felt a painful tugging in her heart, and without hesitation her thoughts rushed back to the village from which she had been torn, to the father to whom she had to return.

The stag's head snapped upwards. Trip held her breath until he looked away. She struggled between the natural grace of the animals and the appetite rumbling deep in her abdomen. It made her throat constrict, to think that one of them would have to die if she were to survive, that she would be the one to direct them to their end. In the vast cavern of her mind it seemed grotesque and repulsive, too horrific to contemplate. Why were humans destined to taint the world around them, like a plague, like a scourge? Even a cataclysmic war had not wiped them out, and here they remained, clinging stubbornly to the earth, seeping their blackness into its clean unmarked surface. Or was it simply an innate natural order she was childish to cower from and foolish to try and change?

She was ashamed by how quickly she made up her mind. All it took was one sharp stab of hunger piercing through her stomach, one physical certainty to render rationality and principles void, and she had her decision. It shamed her, but there was also a hard strength in it, like a small firm rock to clutch onto. Trip knew what she had to do. There was absolutely no way she could get back home without food.

The girl forced her eyes to drink in all the grace and wonder of the deer free in the forest, every drop of their absolute  _rightness_ , as if preserving the memory of perfection even if she was destined to shatter it. This would be her penance. She set her jaw and drew confidence from her clenched fists.

"Trip?" said Monkey, but she was already moving.

She heaved her shoulder against the log beside her. Lashing out her limbs, she shook the leaves of the bushes and she snapped branches, summoning motion in the languid stillness of an empty forest. The pretty flowers fell to the ground. Trip sprang to her feet. The deer fled.

She leapt after them, sprinting as they kicked their legs high into the air, kicking her own just as high. Everything was a flurry of colours and sound: a flash of a brown tail, green boughs whipping past and red leaves crunching underfoot, panting loud in Trip's ears, a girl and a herd thundering through the forest. She was vaguely aware of needing to direct the animals along the right bearing, but most thoughts were lost amidst the great pounding of legs and lungs and heart.

"Good, Trip! They're heading this way!" She hardly heard his voice.

Monkey readied himself among the branches of the great tree. He saw the herd racing towards him, followed by Trip, who had managed to funnel them towards the clearing. If he was lucky they would pass directly underneath, emerging from the shelter of the forest to the danger and opportunity of open grassland. Monkey would be ready.

He squatted on his knees, swinging the weight of his massive arms, preparing to jump into action. He was aware that his timing would need to be perfect. But Monkey was by nature a perfectly tuned machine, whose intuitive senses allowed him to operate almost like clockwork, like a fluid mechanism streaming over the surface of this tortured land. His burning eyes traced the path of the incoming creatures. Almost, almost.

The first deer dashed through the undergrowth at the boundary of the forest. It was a stag, a majestic beast with enormous antlers probably capable of gutting a man, and then came a fawn, veering to the side as it struggled to lift its spindly legs like its father. Behind them was the mass of the herd. Several deer followed in quick succession, their eyes wide, their hooves resounding behind the leader. Monkey felt the reverberations through his feet and knew it was time. He leapt through the air and fell to the ground, crumpling his lower legs against the force of impact, then rightening himself within seconds, springing to his feet with impossible elasticity. The deer sprinted past him. Only one was forced to stop in its path as it collided with the unexpected obstacle before it, a hulking creature of muscle and lightning reflexes which had plummeted from the sky. Monkey was upon the deer in an instant. He engulfed it in his biceps, forcing its legs to buckle until he could pin it against the ground. The animal was confused and terrified. It gave a weak attempt at jerking resistance against its bonds of flesh, then alternated between shaking its head, scratching at the ground and emitting a low plaintive moaning, before suddenly and unnervingly falling still, as if resigned to its fate. It knew it could not shake this colossal predator. Its doe eyes seemed to be gazing at something far into the distance, something which Monkey could not perceive. He panted heavily, raggedly, as he pressed his hefty bulk down upon the creature.

Trip had regained her breath and returned to the clearing. As she passed through a shifting veil of jade she saw a twitching heap in the shade of the great tree, a trembling mass of ridiculous limbs and angles which was gradually revealed to be two separate creatures as she approached. A single deer was trapped under Monkey's body weight. She could see the remainder of the herd disappearing once again into the protection of the forest, slipping away to a place she would never know, faster than a bud closing itself against the twilight. The wrestle for survival had decreed that they abandon one of their own for the wellbeing of them all. The deer looked straight through her, silently asking why.

Monkey was slick with sweat, his face distorted into a twisted grimace, and she could see something of the animal in him then, maybe more simian than human. Would he have crushed her too, if she had not enslaved him? Would her bones quiver and crack beneath his chest?

"Do it quickly, Monkey," was all she could say.

He had killed animals for food many times in the wilderness. Now he pressed down harder upon malleable tissue, making sure to block the windpipe. The rhythm of a fading pulse pounded against his skin. He kept his head high, detached, never making eye contact with the flailing creature caught in his endless grasp. Trip did not watch. She looked to the sky instead, where the sun had begun to set, and as the horizon was dyed yellow and steel grey a shadow filtered through the leaves of the great tree, turning the ground to ashes and dust as the trembling mass finally fell still.

They lit a small fire within the ribcage of an old building, on the second storey. Trip did not feel safe on the ground floor with so much dark open space and so many shaded entrances. The outer walls were somewhat intact, although punctured by the remnants of windows and other large cavities: Monkey hoped that their presence, a tiny glimmer of light in this silent necropolis, would be shielded from wandering mechs. It was dangerous to rest in the ghostly buildings, but it was even more dangerous to rest in the ancient boulevards of the Old City itself.

Monkey watched the orange spires of flame crackle along the silhouette of the wall. Trip did not want to touch the carcass, but it was stupid, because she knew she would be eating it soon. Monkey busied himself with constructing a makeshift spit as she gathered kindle for the fire and fallen leaves for insulation and warmth. She carved him a sharp stake with which to slice cleanly through still-warm flesh, and in return he hid the dead animal in the corner as he cut the meat, shielding her from the sight, although he could not hide the smell. Once the meat was placed above the fire they took turns rotating the spit. The final result was overcooked, a little charred, but glorious to taste after days of undernourishment. Trip ate quickly and keenly, even though the heat burned the tips of her fingers, because he needed to know that she wasn't affected by delicate emotions and she wouldn't be affected by him. She would do what it took to survive.

They ate as much as they could, saving the last of the meat for the morning. In a corner of the room Trip had piled leaves and moss into a crude mattress - here she sat with her back to the wall, arms wrapped around her legs, staring with heavy-lidded eyes at the waning embers of the fire. Monkey positioned himself beside her.

"You should sleep," he told her. She yawned despite herself, bowing in upon her body like a feline. At her side he was solid and persistent and unyielding. It was strange how something so concrete could be so comforting.

She had seen him kill another living thing. Before it had been only mechs, and they were different. They did not contain a conscious pulse or soul in the eyes or hopes or desires. And now her emotions for him consisted of a deep-seated fear, an urge to escape as natural as the deer urging themselves to flee, a knowledge that if he were not bound he could choke her to rasping, rapturous death; and also a completely different feeling, a safety and a comfort, an understanding that if she stayed with the most powerful creature in the wasteland then she was untouchable. She controlled him but he was a leashed dread. Security was never made to mix so potently with terror, an intoxicating blend of polar magnetisms.

Trip rested her head on her knees, swathed in a bed of leaves, and closed her eyes with the heat of Monkey radiating through her mind and her body far stronger than the fire.

Monkey was still and vigilant. In the cracked ceiling above them, and in the wall to their right, a chunk of the building had fallen away, revealing a patch of inky sky draped with a river of stars. It was the most beautiful thing to focus on, to lure in his eyes like water is enticed to the sea, to draw his sight away from the city crumbling around them and cold deer and death.

"Trip."

Her slurred reply was a collection of indistinct syllables.

"We did well today. You did well today." He looked at her, head in her lap, too stubborn to sleep comfortably on the blanket of foliage she had constructed for herself. He wondered if she knew that it was the first time in a long, long time he had spoken such words. "Thank you."

She might have mumbled something that was an acknowledgement and a return of gratitude, but Monkey could not be sure.

The fire crackled pleasantly. He craned his neck back and rested, sight locked on the unwavering stars above. Even when they twinkled and flickered they remained, bewitching his eyes, a gleaming patchwork against the heavens. They would never die out, unlike the dimming fire, unlike this whole city and the people that had inhabited it, unlike the deer he had killed with his bare hands. They were eternal and unfaltering. They were his idols, his shining example: they lit the silver path he wished to tread. Monkey knew that if he could be so eternal, so unfaltering, he could protect all that must be protected in this world.

He lowered his head to watch the stairwell, keeping his vigil throughout the long night.


	4. The Fish

Trip wouldn't like to admit it, but Monkey knew she had been upset by the fish. Maybe to him they were just fish, but to her they represented something more, like a wish, like a hope, and when the mech had smashed the ancient tank so they lay on the hard ground writhing and gasping to sudden death, her heart too had been choking in some way that was unfathomable to him. Her tears had fallen bitterly upon the saltwater and the glinting shards of glass.

When it happened, he hadn't known what to say. Monkey was no orator: words did not come easily to him and he had little occasion to use them. But it remained in the back of his mind, the way she had dimmed after that event, the downturn of her eyes, her drive which had once been so strong now muted by probabilities too desperately horrific to imagine, and the understanding that perhaps he had been too uncouth, overly dismissive of the home she was battling to return to. Driven by a guilt he was not keen to decipher, an unacknowledged but resolute part of Monkey waited for a chance to console her.

One day they reached a massive crack in the land, a ravine where the metropolis had been sundered in two. The mighty crevice had undermined the foundations of decayed skyscrapers, reducing them to trembling frameworks of the structures they must once have been, and causing some to partially collapse into perilous bridges storeys wide and spanning the entire canyon. Broken pipes and conduits jutted out into the gorge, yellowed bones protruding from the fractured carcass of the city. The land ached to close the gap, plastering the steep sides of the intervening rift with shrubs and creepers, and a river ran at the bottom of the chasm like blood in a vein.

Monkey walked to the edge. Looking into the distance, he could see the jagged valley stretch on deep into the centre of the Old City, a gaping scar across its face. There was no way to cross here. Trip came to stand behind him, although she positioned herself further from the sheer descent and was hesitant to look down into it.

He, however, did not suffer the effects of vertigo, or if he did he made no outward display of them. His gaze dropped down, down like a stone, all the way to the bed of the ravine. The indistinct sounds of the stream reached their ears. Its waters were an impossible shade of bright translucence, seemingly unaffected by the pollution of the city. He could make out irregular bodies, moving like birds move through curtains of leaves, and after a few moments he realised that it was fish flitting far below, tones of green and blue flashing erratically across the surface of the water. Their scales winked silver in the sun.

Monkey was not a symbolic man. He did not care for figures of speech or convoluted allegories when he could concern himself with tangible facts, with the everyday reality of where to head next, how to find your next meal, how to survive another day. But even Monkey could see that there was meaning to be found in life in this wasteland, that the chance of hope was meaning enough.

"Look, Trip. There's fish down there." It didn't seem sufficient, so he carried on. "Fish in the water, birds in the trees. Deer in the forest." His words sounded more clumsy than reassuring to his ears, his diction inelegant and rambling from years of disuse.

He kept his sights fixed firmly on the canyon below. Trip watched him from the periphery of her vision. She had to take a second to grasp that he was actually trying to be kind to her, albeit in a roundabout way, but when she did, it gave her a strange tender sensation which felt all at once both risky and the safest, most secure thing in the world.

"And us," she said.

His voice was as coarse as it had always been. "And both of us."

When he raised his eyes to look at her, her lips had formed a crescent: not quite a smile, but a quiet, curious blend of surprise and appreciation, and it was enough. She moved on past him, head up now, eyes alert, unfastening the dragonfly from her hair to show them the way. It was then that Monkey learnt the meaning of symbolism, how a sliver of midday light on the collarbone of a young woman could translate to a slice of golden warmth in his own heart, and the intangible, elusive force of hope.


	5. The Spotlight

Trip had never owned a pet. In her village they had kept chickens, but she had always been more interested in machines and the tantalisingly dangerous electricity which kept them alive. When she was younger she played with switches and wiring so much that her fingertips were almost constantly charred. With Monkey she was reminded of the same type of feeling, the grating suspicion that she was toying with forces which were fickle and hazardous and not entirely unlikely to cause her serious harm.

After several days of travelling through the Old City, making their way towards the crash site of the slave ship, it had become more and more probable that greater numbers of mechs would begin to notice their presence. They had attracted the unpleasant attention of a giant dog-like mech. Well, Trip had attracted its attention. The beast, a mechanical monster which disturbed her beyond a simple fear for her life when she realized that somebody had knowingly invented the animated horror as a tool to hunt, maim and slaughter other humans, had chased them into yet another building. From there they had stumbled upon a huge derelict room, intricately designed, a great abandoned semicircular space with a ceiling so staggeringly high that portions of it had crumbled and fallen away to allow light to pour upon the centuries-old darkness. Monkey forged onwards. He was eager to put some space between themselves and the dog, but as Trip regained her breath she glimpsed the unnatural, wondrous glint of technology out of the corner of her eye and couldn't help but stop and look.

Her father called her a magpie, because she had always been drawn to small trinkets and things that winked to her in the sun. Elevated high up at the back of this room was such an object, calling to her in that familiar way. Trip knew it must be a power cell.

"You have to help me get up there, Monkey," she said. It would be a travesty to leave such a rare treasure behind: her father had instilled deep into Trip the virtues of resourcefulness and ingenuity. There was no other way to survive in the wilderness. Monkey grunted and admitted defeat, allowing Trip to clamber onto his back so he could hoist her up an irregular staircase of collapsed portions of ceiling and elevated platforms. With her partner's assistance she made it to the summit of the man-made mountain alone.

Trip manoeuvred her way into what must have been a control booth and saw the glowing orb waiting for her, sitting patiently in isolation for a hundred years before her arrival. Now that she could see her prize, nothing could divert her from obtaining it. "The power cell is protected by an electronic lock… so I'll need to switch on the entire system to bypass it. Should only take a couple of minutes," she explained breathlessly, more for her own benefit than for Monkey. For as long as she could remember Trip had spoken to herself as she worked. The outside world slipped away as she began flicking switches and rearranging the damaged wiring, muttering inaudibly, a determined expression on her face of the ecstasy of restoration. Monkey said something about taking a look around below. As Trip was waiting for the electrical system to reboot itself after a hundred years of disuse she glanced through the control booth to the empty room. From her vantage point she was able to take in the entire scope of this giant semi-circle carved in brick and steel, a rounded hollow where the eye was automatically drawn like metal drawn to magnets. And down below were the remains of rows of chairs, in a space where hundreds of people could fit comfortably. Trip felt a strange stirring of emotions as she was forced to wonder what mysteries could have taken place in the distant past in this ornate and cavernous room. Did the Old People gather here to worship someone of great importance? What were the lighting rigs hung from the roof used for? What was the importance of the raised convex platform and what did it display?

Suddenly an unexpected movement caught Trip's eye: she froze and tried to isolate the motion, but even so it took her a moment to make out the dark hulking figure at the far end of the room. A loud crash reverberated from the shadows.

"Monkey, I think one of them is inside!" she hissed. As her pulse raced Trip hovered above the control panel in pained indecision, trying to rack her brains for any viable course of action, aware that every second of hesitation placed Mokey, and thus herself, in greater peril. Just when she though she might freeze altogether, the electrical system took responsibility from her hands and jolted abruptly to life with a thunderous drone. The spotlight from the lighting rig switched itself on to focus on the platform below. Trip could see now that Monkey was standing there in alert panic, horror flooding his face like the beam flooded his skin with blinding white, revealing his position as efficiently as a flashing sign.

"Trip, turn it off! Turn it off!"

Trip heard his hollering, and cursed violently under her breath, but was unable to offer assistance. The spotlight was controlled by an automatic system programmed into the lighting which she could not shut off. It moved with a life of its own; there was no way for her direct the light. She almost smashed the controls in front of her in fury. Yet again she was the useless girl, weak and inadequate, hiding out of harm's way whilst Monkey tackled danger head on and risked life and limb to protect her. What good were machines if she couldn't control them when she needed them, if they turned fickle, if technological prowess always paled in comparison to physical brawn?

The mech dog, snarling with a whine of metal against metal, took the opportunity to pounce upon its prey in a clatter of iron and jagged claws which sent sparks flying from the floor. Monkey rolled out of its path at the last moment. The pair, dog and monkey, commenced upon a dance of guts and death in the shadow of the vast ceiling, in the curved belly of that decorative, forsaken arena. When the mech swung Monkey dodged and when Monkey scrambled his way to the top of a wooden stand the dog roared and tried in vain to swipe at him. Trip, the third player in this act, watching from the control booth high above, realised that a scaffold was suspended above the platform and aligned almost directly over the dog. She pulled upon a lever which appeared to control the scaffolding, but to no effect.

"Monkey," she yelled out, in her haste forgetting that they shared an audio link and that she had no need to raise her voice. "The mechanism for the scaffold's stuck. If you get up there and unjam it we can drop it on the dog."

He had managed to climb his way to temporary safety. The death mech was prowling the ground below him, following his leaping shadow. When it moved it rattled and clanked like a scrapheap on legs. Monkey bounded across the lighting rigs like a bird in flight, crossing impossibly long distances with an agility hidden in coiled muscles and a fearless spirit. The spotlight had locked onto him, defining his figure with absolute brightness and causing his shadow to trail, pitch black, a single step behind him. In the starkness of the light he seemed one-dimensional, but also larger than life, like a hero in an ancient tale. Trip watched from her commanding viewpoint. He was glowing, centred in the spotlight of her life, the leading man in her own personal story, at that moment the single most important person in the world to her. As she saw him now, bathed in the artificial glow of technology, he seemed to be framed by the shadow of all of her expectations and assumptions, and yet at his core remained the true Monkey, precisely as he was, scarred and too large to be real and lithe and frowning and saturated in light. He was hers to direct and control.

It was uncouth, but in a strange way he was the closest thing she had ever had to a pet. Trip often operated machines. But Monkey was not a machine: he was a real being, who had his own goals and who got angry and wished for things and could get hurt, even if to her he was merely a means to an end. Men had always sought to control their brothers, she supposed, because there was a beautiful dark wickedness in having absolute power over another human being, a feeling which Trip could sense hardening her bones. Even the death dog mech had been constructed by human hands for supremacy and might.

But wasn't there a difference between Monkey and the dog? They were both dangerous, both kings and warriors in their own right, soldiers to the death in the wasteland, perhaps neither one aware of what they were fighting for. And yet, the mech had been built solely to kill. Monkey had a heart and even if his main aim was to keep himself alive, even if he was a loner amongst a lonely race of tribes and nomads, he still contained more soul, more character and vitality and all the imperfection of life than the dog would ever know. Even if Trip drew blueprints and notes, and worked day and night, she could never create a mech Monkey that was in any way comparable to the real Monkey, bounding across the scaffolds, swathed in a white glow. For once in her life Trip thought she could see how living, existing creatures could be preferable to the cold hunks of metal she had laboured to understand.

Monkey had reached the platform directly above the mech. He clung inelegantly to a hanging humanoid figure, chipped and disintegrating from age, which must have been a part of the strange ceremonies which once took place here, before tugging it downwards and freeing it from its harness. The figure collided with the scaffolding and they both plummeted to the ground, landing upon the dog in a glorious mess of ropes, wood, metal, and the dazzling spotlight. Monkey disentangled himself from the carnage. The enraged, wounded mech howled and tried fruitlessly to escape its misshapen cage with a series of violent convulsions. The hero had defeated the terrible beast. As they both stood together in the spotlight, one panting, the other shuddering, Trip was forced to recognise their similarities. Monkey was a beast-like creature too, she had to remind herself. But hadn't he proven his worth? In the end both him and the dog would be capable of killing her if they so desired, yet whilst the mech was only able to commit acts with the intent of evil which its creator had instilled in it perhaps centuries ago, she knew that Monkey was capable of gentleness, of humanity and understanding. However fleeting it might be, Trip had seen that side of him, had recognised the decency through the stern exterior.

He was breathing heavily now. The sweat on his forearms shone in the beam of the spotlight. Yes, he was inelegant, but he got the job done, and in the relieving lull of that moment Trip found herself believing, sincerely, that he would get her home. He was hardly the type of company her father would expect her to keep, but if she had come to appreciate Monkey then so would he. Besides, there was no way he could dislike the man who would return his lost daughter.

With her power cell, Trip made her way out of the control booth to the battle arena where the mech was still encaged, and could not help blinking as she entered the pool of white luminescence where Monkey stood. She couldn't change her decision to enslave him, but she could choose not to abuse her power. She didn't want a pet or a monster on a leash: all she wanted was Monkey as he was now. As she took in all of his scars and bruises, wondering who he had been defending when he acquired them, as she looked into the face of her unlikely protector, at all of his bulk, his brawn, Trip realised that power was only as important as what you chose to do with it; and that, more than anything, she wanted to use hers to save this man in the same way that he was saving her.


	6. The Night

And suddenly, they were free. The Old City melted away behind them in a blur of extravagant decay and synthetic asymmetry and Trip almost felt like shouting with light-headed bliss to be out of that haunted place. Skyscrapers and boulevards were replaced with a rolling green sea of gentle hills, an endless ocean of pure countryside which might have predated even the Old People and their cities. Trip supposed that Monkey had wandered across this terrain for many years, but for her everything was a new experience. Before the slavers had captured her she could count the number of times she had left the walls of her village on one hand.

She had not imagined, for example, that the land would still be criss-crossed with ancient roads and highways like lines on a palm. The carcasses of power cables gathered foliage within their shells and were strung together by sagging wires, stretching on to the horizon, winking beads on an organic necklace.

The motorbike devoured miles of black tarmac. Along the road they travelled, broken poles which Trip supposed once housed lights created a sparse prison of bars over their heads. Even above the roar of the bike, the silence was deafening. Trip couldn't imagine living in such a place, creating a home from these comatose plains, exhausted and slumbering after the memory of war. At least in the Old City there was the pretence of life and existence. Here there was nothing.

After a time the sky became bruised with clouds and flooded by the orange swansong of the setting sun. They made camp away from the road, in the shelter of large tower misshapen with sheets of metal. While Monkey started a fire Trip examined his motorbike, handling it very gently, trying to peer inside to the chassis and its shadowy inner workings. She had to admit she was enamoured with the machine.

Monkey lit their fire underneath a small tree. It was paltry protection, but it felt important in the huge flat expanse. As night settled its cloak across the land their visibility quickly disappeared, and soon all the pair could see was each other lit by jumping flames in the midst of the great darkness. The clouds had blocked the stars in the sky. The gloom was almost suffocating.

Almost worst than imagining monsters in the dark was knowing that there was nothing there any more, simply a massive spread of emptiness, of non-existence, because the monsters had already come and destroyed and they had been human themselves.

They had no food but neither of them mentioned it. Trip explained that they would probably reach her village by tomorrow. She could hardly believe it was coming to an end so soon, that within another day she would be back with her community, safe, loved. It made her jittery and excited, but also slow and thoughtful, made her feel like she should relish these last few moments before her life would return back to the way it always was, the last fading wisps of adventure while she could still feel excitement and risk even so close to home.

But more than that, it made her think of the giant man who had accompanied her on the journey. Perhaps accompanied wasn't the right word: she had, after all, forced him into the endeavour. Trip still felt the blush of shame. She had to know where he would go when she was safely home, even if it was none of her business, even if it was rude to ask. Somehow Trip didn't think Monkey cared too much about social mores. What she did know, however, without a shadow of a doubt, was that she would finally free him from her control. And maybe in that moment she could make amends for her wrongdoing, and maybe Monkey would forgive her. And just maybe, if he stayed, if he allowed her father to reward him for his bravery, she wouldn't have to say goodbye just yet.

Maybe she should have felt more embarrassed about asking so bluntly: maybe it was selfish of her to assume to such things. But there was really no time for such emotion, because when tomorrow dawned he could be gone from her life. Watching flecks of flame rise out of the fire and dwindle on their journey to the heavens, she asked him what he would do, when it was over, when his task was complete.

"Go back, I guess," said Monkey.

"Go back where?" Something in her tone was more concerned than she had intended, but Monkey thought he heard it. Like she worried for him.

He had to take a moment to register the furrowing of her eyebrows and the way neither of them could look at one another. Then he found his hoarse reply, and he told her, as plainly as he could. He did not have a home. He was a wanderer, travelling wherever he could find supplies. He knew she hadn't meant to insult him, and usually he would never had noticed, but something about travelling with her, hearing her naïve stories of community life and unity and kinship had done something to him, and he felt a tightness in his throat when he spoke. There was an undertone to her voice which said she pitied him, because a life alone is no life at all.

Trip felt the strange lurching in her abdomen which had become more frequent as of late, and knew she had to speak now, before she lost the courage. "You could… probably stay," she managed. "If you wanted." Monkey shot her a look and before she knew it their eyes had met, and she had to blink immediately, and all of this meant she stumbled over her words as she attempted to rectify her candid statement. "I'm just saying, when my father hears about all you've done for me, I know he'll offer you a home." She felt like an idiot, enforcing her own desires on him. She had to clarify all the stupid things she was saying. It was still his choice, of course - she wasn't trying to control him. "If that's what you want."

Even if Trip didn't understand exactly the feeling she was trying shakily to voice, Monkey did. It was her good-natured sense of friendship and easy affinity, an unforeseen sensation he had first encountered when they met. She was attempting to reinforce their bond, whatever bond that might be, because for Trip, it was the only option that made any sense. Regardless of her mechanical expertise, Trip still knew a lot more about humans than Monkey. For her, companionship was worth holding onto. More worthy than isolation and the logic and safety of living alone. They'd shared something, hadn't they? Even if it had been fleeting, half-imagined, only existing in a limbo state where they were somehow united by fate. And this was when you did when you had made an unlikely connection: you worked hard to keep it alive, Monkey supposed, because such things were rare enough treasures in the inert wasteland. He'd never met anyone like Trip before, nobody with such youth and hopefulness, nobody with enough misplaced virtue to believe they could nurture friendship in this world. And yet she was so plucky, so forward in her plans and objectives, so determined to be brave in the face of all this change. Monkey didn't really know how to express himself that way. He certainly didn't know how to respond. Even if he'd wanted to become part of such a homely community… well, he worked best alone. He knew himself well enough to at least know that. And he had seen enough attempted societies to know they usually ended badly. It was safer to be alone, to remain small and mobile and draw the least amount of attention possible, and Monkey was also toughened enough to know that emotion and good intentions counted for absolutely nothing if you wanted to stay alive.

After a lengthy silence there came no reply. The dark began to feel like it was enveloping Trip, and with a sinking feeling she began to realise that she had presumed too much. She wished the night would swallow her foolish words whole, but the memory of them lingered on the air.

Trip got to her feet and said she was going to sleep. Monkey did not respond, but busied himself with adding more fuel to the fire whilst she tried, somewhat awkwardly, to find a comfortable position underneath the solitary tree. Although the ground was hard, and the deep silence far too absolute, eventually Trip succumbed to waves of exhaustion and closed her eyes. Monkey remained sitting by the fire, head bowed.

Trip felt herself being lulled closer and closer to sleep, although she could not cross that final threshold. In time she became aware of a subtle shift in temperature as the fire dwindled and a chill night breeze grew in magnitude in its place. She did not yet open her eyes, but she was annoyed and her scrunched shoulders showed the fact. Her arms were far too bare. Goosebumps ran up and down her skin as she tried to ignore all the little annoyances keeping her from sleep, tried to think of everything she would soon be returning to, her father and her home.

"Trip."

She opened one eye to look at him.

"It's freezing," he said.

Monkey stood up. She sighed, loosened her body slightly, resigning herself to the fact that there were too many emotions running through her mind to allow for an easy descent into slumber. Before Trip could realise precisely what was happening Monkey had sat beside her, and then he was lying down at her side, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her bare flesh, bringing heat and renewal to skin which was previously bitter with cold.

"What are you doing?" she asked. She shifted to face him, only afterwards appreciating how intimate they were. Her eyes were immediately lured towards his, hardly a hair's breadth from her own, so close that she had to inhale quite sharply, and the purest of blue, and surrounded by that deep sea of red, and the scars and battle hatches and unshaved jawline that were all so undoubtedly Monkey. He stared straight back.

"We should stay close. For warmth," he said matter-of-factly.

She turned away suddenly, so her back was to him. She didn't mean to be so jumpy. Monkey said nothing more, but she knew he was there, because she could feel his heat protecting her from the frigid night.

Trip kept very still and looked uneasily up into the obscured sky. At that moment, more than anything, she longed for a mother. She just wanted somebody to ask about the stirring in her stomach, the erratic darting of her eyes, the impulsive words she spoke, things she had never before felt and had never been warned about, somebody who would advise her a sensible course of action when she found herself flustered this way, too close and too drawn to this unreadable and bestial stranger.


	7. The Village

In the lingering serenity of the silent village, Monkey could see where Trip inherited her natural grace and charm. If you were born and raised in such an environment, it would probably be difficult to be anything other than beautiful. Monkey had grown up in the wilderness, and look how he'd turned out. High up on the mountaintop plateau of the settlement, where a giant windmill turned quietly in the breeze, Monkey could see for miles into the far distance. The landscape was awash with blue. Faint specks of brown and white, and deep fern green, interrupted the cobalt haze. There was more here than he could ever envision, lakes and forests and mountains and snow and dust and ice, spread out before him like a blanket of splendour. How could the world stretch further than this?

The wind whistled with confidence, strong and brave. It was a life-giving force. A whole community had sprung up here despite the odds; they had survived thanks to the wind and the power they generated from its kindly currents. And Trip was like a tree, forever anchored in the soil of her serene home.

It was also here where Monkey learned the true fragility of human life.

"Trip! Okay Trip, I'm coming!"

Monkey had never run so fast in his life. Damn that girl. He wouldn't pretend to understand how she must be feeling, coming home to be greeted by dead bodies and the acrid sting of grief: he had been too young to really mourn the loss of his own parents. But did she have to run headlong into a nest of mechs? Goddamnit, if something happened to her it would be the end of him.

His annoyance melted away when he found her. She was curled up with her legs to her chest, eyes glued to the broken body flung over a nearby rock like an oversized rag doll. Its lifeless eyes stared her down. Monkey wished he could remove it from her sight.

"This was my home. You were right, the slavers came back. It's all gone now."

"Trip…"

"We're going to die, Monkey. We're just going to die." Her voice haunted him. This was not the Trip he knew. This girl was as cold as the corpse, as still as the silence she broke with her vacant words. "None of it is ever going to matter, because we'll all die in the end and nothing can ever go back to the way it was."

"Trip, where's your father?"

Please don't let it be the body, please don't let it be the body.

"I can't find him."

Monkey crouched at her side - wanted to place his arms around her, but thought better of it. "If he's not here it means he could have gotten away."

"How could he get away?" A voice as frozen as death itself, quiet, barely there at all. Then louder, a sudden eruption of mourning wrenched from her naked lips, a fiery lament caught between sobbing and screaming. "How could he get away, Monkey?  _How_ could he get _away!_ "

He waited as she moaned into her palms, breaths tearing ragged from her throat. He waited as her shoulders shook and shuddered, as her existence disintegrated and fell around her like an ungodly halo. He waited as she gulped air, raised her tear-streaked face, spoke in a breathless rush of last ditch hope.

"The war room. We have a war room."

The war room was protected behind thick metal doors built into a high wall, with a harsh red light spinning in warning above, and steel locks clutching onto the joints like giant unyielding fingers. Trip knew how to get inside. As soon as the doors had swung open she ran into the long corridor beyond, a passageway lit by lights which were too bright, too clinical, and surrounded by walls unsuitably coloured with red and green which battled for dominance in the dispassionate glow. Trip called out for her father as she went. Monkey didn't think he had ever heard that exact frequency of trembling speech emanating from her lips, and it sent unease down his spine.

They were greeted by the audio recording of a human voice. Monkey reached the small, secure room at the end of the corridor to see a still body sitting in a chair. He looked like he might just be resting, just sitting back and thinking, positioned in a relaxed pose with darkened sunglasses concealing his eyes, like death - and Monkey instinctively knew that it was death, just as he could tell exactly who this dead man was - had come easily. Trip was on her knees. An array of computer screens around the edge of the room were flickering with static, silent and useless now. Monkey did not listen closely to the recording, because it seemed wrong somehow to intrude upon such a personal moment between father and daughter. Even if he had never known the man, even if he had been so wicked as to predict the downfall of his community, this was a great cruelty and a merciless injustice. Monkey wished he could take back those biting words now. He did not want to take a single step further into this room of stagnant air and broken promises, where Trip needed to be alone, where he was not wanted. But he could hear her quiet sobs, her shuddering breaths, the stiff rigidity of her back as she was immobilised by anguish and this deep, deep hurt. She had heard enough. He went and stopped the tape.

In the awful silence afterwards Monkey almost wanted to slink away into the shadows. Only one thing could overpower that uncomfortable disquiet: his sense of duty to her, and the knowledge that he couldn't leave her now, not like this, not crushed and wounded with angry tears welling in her eyes. He bent down at her side. If he could have closed those green eyes, magnified by teardrops, and if that would have made everything disappear, made all of it a dream, then he would have done so, but as it was all he could do was stare and stare at her and hope that his protection would be enough. Now he knew that there was nobody left but he, so Trip's safety fell upon his shoulders. The hard determination was written on his face.

"I said… get me home, and I'll set you free." She raised her head with difficulty. When she prised her eyes from her father's corpse, turned to look at Monkey, her gaze was like ice shards and filled with an unnatural, chilling calm. In that look Monkey saw something of the girl who had enough tenacity, enough brash force to place a slave headband on an unconscious stranger. "I guess I lied." There was no time for her to feel apologetic, only the white-hot anger in her hands and eyes and heart which pounded in her skull like an inferno, calling for revenge, for bloodshed, for any damned power she could wreak over these infernal wastelands which were too erratic, too deadly, and far too unfair. "The slavers come from the west, so that's where we're going. I want to find out who did this. And then I'm going to kill him."

Monkey believed her.

All this time, he had thought Trip barely more than a young girl placed in unfortunate circumstances. But she was more than that, and there was a shadow lurking behind her. She needed this retribution: she needed to know there was some justice still remaining in this shattered world. And who was he to deny it? He had thought of her as a blooming flower, delicate in the extreme, and she was, because he could smell her blossom and the tenderness of a childhood being drawn swiftly to an end, but she was also a deadly vine, a creeper who was not afraid to kill for what she knew was right, that which was more important than personal survival alone. Killing? He had thought that killing was something only he could do, but now he saw that he was wrong.

Yet the revelation did not scare him; it did not cause Monkey to draw away from her. He sat gazing at her as she ingested the implications of what she had just said, as her jaw ground with rage and sorrow. Had he really been prepared to leave her? It no longer mattered. He was forced to remain by her side for now. And he would do so, because in Trip he saw himself, disillusioned and incensed, her natural benevolence clouded by rage, faith broken by forces she could not explain: and only by staying could he return that faith to her. Only then could he reignite the spark of hope in her heart, that blessed spark which had brought him so far and changed so very much, and she would never know any of it.

Monkey watched as Trip endeavoured to breath in and out. He saw how her hands shook in her lap, how she seemed smaller physically than she had minutes ago, how she did not look at her father again, because it was too difficult and because she had to focus on her new objective. Perhaps he understood her a little better now.


	8. The Pig

Monkey could not stand Pigsy. Out in the wastelands it was every man for himself, and it seemed that every man felt he had a right to every woman in sight. Monkey had seen it many times before. It sickened him. And Pigsy was just a guy like all the others, a layabout, a lazy heap of a creature, thinking he could take things that weren't rightfully his.

Not only that, he thought it was funny to unleash mechs on other people as a form of petty revenge. The rhino had damn near killed Monkey, then gone a step way too far and damn near killed Trip.

Monkey had never been more furious, never feared for her life more than he did in that moment. But the incident did have at least one positive result: it had repelled the Pig. Maybe in a visual, active and all too obvious way it had put across the words Monkey had been trying to say, in a way that no amount of yelling or fuming on his part could express to Pigsy. Either way, he seemed to have got the message. He backed off from his attempted seduction of Trip. Well, Pigsy would have called it a seduction. Monkey would just call it a failure.

Monkey had been the one to save Trip when the rhino stole her away. Monkey had led her through the Old City and had taken her back to her village. Monkey had kept her safe. He was always the one. He was her guardian, her champion. Monkey did not have an intimate knowledge of jealousy, but Pigsy, for all his flippant jokes and taunts, could see it, the way Monkey's face stiffened when Trip was mentioned, his low and distrusting voice, and the fire raging in those ice cold eyes, all telling the subtle but solemn message of  _back off_.

After their scrape with the rhino, Monkey had been adamant that they get out of the Titan Factory as quickly as possible. He had grabbed Trip by the arm and guided her away from Pigsy and any more harm he could cause the pair of them. As they made their way back to the factory hideout Monkey and Trip walked ahead, while Pigsy brought up the rear, with what Monkey could only hope was shame and humiliation over what had just occurred.

"Monkey," called the Pig.

Monkey did not slow down. "What is it?" His tone was acerbic.

"I want to talk to you."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want to talk to you."

The other two had stopped walking. With trepidation Monkey slowed to a halt, then turned around. Trip had her arms crossed and her expression was telling him to give Pigsy another chance.

Grumbling to himself, Monkey paced back to where Pigsy was standing and glared pointedly at him. "What the hell do you want?" Out of the corner of his eye he could see Trip fiddling with her armband, standing several paces away to grant them some semblance of privacy.

"Look, I'm sorry. That didn't exactly turn out the way I'd planned. I have something important to tell you."

"And how in the hell did you plan it, Pigsy? Did you  _plan_  to kill me? Did you plan to  _kill Trip!_ " Monkey had never felt such rage surging through his veins, such a beast clawing at his throat and demanding to be let out. He heard his bellows echo far across a landscape stained with acidic greens and oranges. Trip froze, unsure how to act now it was quite obvious the conversation wasn't going to be a particularly confidential one.

Pigsy huffed and looked away. He shook his head, his ridiculous metal ear flapping this way and that.

" _Listen_. I made a mistake, that's in the past. I could promise I won't do it again, only you're too stubborn to believe me. At least hear what I have to say now." Monkey would have responded, but before he could do so Pigsy had begun speaking again, rattling off words as though they were rehearsed. "I've known Trip longer than you, buddy. Way longer. And I know you think you know exactly what's right for her and you think you're exactly what she needs, but you've only just walked into her life, so stand back and shut up for a second.

"Trip's a great girl. She deserves the best. Do you understand me? She deserves a hell of a lot better than this." He swung his arm around the backdrop of derelict machinery they stood against, then paused to take a deep breath. "Maybe I got no right saying this, but since her dad's not around any longer I sorta feel like I should be the one to say it. I owe her that much. Trip's got her mind set on you, mister. You're lucky, very very lucky, and I just want to make sure you know that."

"Pigsy, I'm not -"

"No, no, shut up and let me talk. Trip is not a girl you can just mess around with. I know what you think about me, and I know what you think I was doing, but I wasn't. Trip means very much to me. I understand that she doesn't feel the same way, and I guess I can let that go." He exhaled. "We've been friends for a long time. But now that she's all alone in the world, she needs somebody to protect her and to stand by her. Through everything. And if that guy isn't going to be me, as much as I hate to say it, it should be you. You're like a walking mountain of muscle, for God's sake, and… you've brought her this far."

Pigsy rubbed a hand against his nose. He squared himself up and fixed Monkey with a firm stare, like he was talking to a young child. "This isn't a game, okay Monkey? She's not your prize to be bought. This is serious. We're talking about life and death, about you protecting someone very special and very precious. I don't want you acting like she's an object, you hear? Like she's yours now and not mine. This is a job for you to do, the most important one you'll ever have, not some present I'm giving you."

"I get that," said Monkey softly.

"Good," said Pigsy, and cleared his throat. "Good. Well, I'm glad you understand."

Monkey took a moment to compose himself. He had the distinct impression that he had just been lectured by a man half his size. Perhaps this was what Trip had meant by family and friends: this awkward, suffocating sharing of everything, even the most personal of topics, even the most sacred of ground.

As he walked away, Monkey found himself in a state of numb shock. He set off again with Trip in close stride, Pigsy trailing behind, as if nothing at all had interrupted them. But things had changed. They had changed quite a lot.

"I can't believe he said all that," Trip whispered.

"He only did it because he knew you could hear."

"Monkey! He's a sweet guy."

Monkey grunted under his breath. But he couldn't help glancing back over his shoulder as he walked, at the squat little person waddling after them, vulgar and piggish but also incomprehensibly loyal, a Pig he had just possibly misjudged. Monkey had known all of that, hadn't he? He didn't need anyone, least of all Pigsy, telling him how to treat Trip. He had been doing fine all by himself. Of course he would protect her, of course he would stand by her through everything.

He looked at the young woman walking beside him. Her head was lowered so that strands of red hair fell across her face: she was obviously deep in thought. Almost more shocking than the words Pigsy had said was everything they implied. Was this really why she had stuck with him for so long, had been so kind and made such an effort? Was she really glad he had stayed? Did she look for his smile and reflections in his eyes like he did? Had she chosen to be bound to him just as he was bound to her? How had Pigsy put it - was her mind really set on him? What on earth did that even mean?

Monkey groaned. He still had a lot to learn.


	9. The Mask

Pyramid towered above them, a great edifice of silver glinting in the sun.

It was dazzling. It was the only thing in the world that was evenly aligned and perfectly constructed, without decay or disruption. It seemed like it was too perfect to exist on this imperfect earth.

They found their way into the interior. Inside, everything was cold and white and clinical. Not only had the temperature dropped sharply, so that Trip could feel the hairs on her arm standing up, but everything here was designed to be bitterly systematic. It was a little too sterile to be pleasing to the eye; and yet the order and symmetry calmed the soul, lulled it into a sort of hypnotism. The only blemish upon the purity of whiteness was an ordered collection of black dots, segmented into divisions far below. They were people. People, humanoid figures, standing row upon row, column upon column, herded methodically and efficiently, layer upon layer, until there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, stretching away and away, more people than Trip had though existed in the whole world.

But Monkey and Trip were elevated. Before them was a pathway, extending onwards, suspended high above the people in their pens. It was the only path they could follow. Monkey went ahead, with Trip's hand in his grasp.

There was something, a creature, a twisted mass of wires and jittery movement, awaiting them ahead. It was moving too fast to be natural, and it was too alien to be examined accurately. "Is this him? Is this the man behind it all?" whispered Trip, restraining the revulsion in her voice. Monkey understood what she meant. Could it be? It barely looked like a human. Before they could step further a huge screen lit up before them in the white cavern of the ceiling, and they had nowhere else to look.

There was a man on the screen.

"Stop," he said, his voice echoing unnaturally from every direction that Trip could perceive. "What are you doing here?"

He sounded disturbed and alarmed by their presence, although the emotion was smothered somewhat under a blanket of detached calm. His massive face filled up the screen, a distinctive face, with dark hair, lines around the mouth, and troubled eyes. He was definitely a man, but unlike any man Trip had ever know. If this was Pyramid, he was not as she had expected him. Behind him on the screen too was a background, showing a long and solid human construction above a river, a bridge, which she felt she may have seen perhaps before, an  _unbroken_  bridge, but the significance of this was too much for her to grasp in that moment.

"Why are you attacking me?" said the man. Quietly disbelieving, puzzled, uneasy, like he could not comprehend what was happening.

Trip wondered if it was a recording that was playing. There was static in the video they were being shown. She could deduce no more. It made her tense - this was technology very different to what she was used to dealing with.

"Who are you?" yelled Monkey. They were still holding hands, which Trip was grateful for.

"I am Pyramid."

They glanced at one another. Monkey looked apprehensive, but Trip's face was hard. Without a word a decisive look settled itself in his mouth and eyes, because he was aware of what could happen next, and he had to prepare himself for whatever might be needed of him. As he turned back to face the colossal screen he repositioned his hand upon her back, allowing her freedom to move. Monkey knew what Trip had come here to do.

"It's you who's been attacking us," she said, stepping forwards. Her hushed voice could have been mistaken for awe, but her accusative snarl now was a little harder to misconstrue. "Enslaving us!"

Calmly, Pyramid replied. "I have enslaved no one." In his blank face Trip thought she could see the slightest suggestion of offence, though it was diluted and almost washed clean by this inhuman composure. "I rescue people from the wasteland. I give them life."

Monkey cut him off. "You give them  _life?_  What do you mean?"

"You do not understand what Pyramid is." Now sadness, a hint of disappointment in the vacant white noise of his voice. "I can explain. Pyramid is the memories of one man who lived before the war. We store his memories, of the world that once was."

A wave of images had appeared on the walls around them. In startling colour they scrolled upwards, projected onto blank space, creating a sense of life in this place of lifelessness. Monkey gazed at them, and there was recognition in his eyes.

Trip could not help it. As much as she wanted nothing to do with this man, wanted no emotional connection to him, she had inhaled sharply and involuntarily at his words. That phrase gnawed away at her heart.  _Before the war_. The images flashed before her. She saw pictures of people, buildings, machines, animals, painted in yellow, blue, green, red, and so many shades she had never seen before. The skies looked clear. The buildings were tall and pristine, not ruined. In a rush she recalled a moment weeks ago, when she had held a ring in the palm of her hand and never felt closer to the people who came before. Trip did not want to cry.

"I am Pyramid," said the face. "I am that man."

Trip looked back to the strange creature below the screen, who was still moving in that particular jerky manner. She could see better now. He was spindly, disgustingly thin, but he had a humanoid body, and attached to his head was an enormous bulging helmet with wires like thick black slugs leeching upon his skull and spine. A mask covered his face. Could this really be the true Pyramid? Could he have remained alive all those years? Older than all the images was this man, this relic from a distant past. And now he had become the withered creature that sat before them, pathetic and wretched, wallowing in his own memories.

"But I am more than a memory," the screen was saying. "I am more than an archive. I am an ark." There, Trip could detect pride, even honour in his words. He was proud of what he had done.

"These pictures… that's what I've been seeing," said Monkey, in a rush of revelation. "Through the headband." He had been trying to ignore these flashes of the past for so long that it felt odd to admit it. He had never told Trip. He had thought them glitches. But as he thought back to the masks and the strange snapshots they brought, he realised that they had all been centred around this man, this Pyramid. It was a relief to know he hadn't been going crazy: a relief to know the images he saw were not confined to his head alone.

"You are seeing the world that they share with me. They are not slaves, they are citizens." Pyramid continued on, but Trip had stopped listening. She was looking down.

The sight of all those people, lined up like black beads on a thread of twine, distressed Trip in a manner that was hard to explain. It reminded her of rows of chairs in the belly of an ancient city, dust being stirred up where it should not be disturbed, memories from what seemed a distant past now. It was sacrilege. It made her blood boil and it caused an entrenched part of herself, buried under flesh and bone, to spasm in revolt, to scream  _No! No! You monster, this is all wrong!_

Free the people. She had to free these people.

_Do not bow to the shadow of the past, do not allow these phantoms to engulf you._

How many of them were her own friends, stolen from the safety of her village? How many had been torn from all they loved, subdued and inserted into this perfect crystalline prison? How many homes and families had been destroyed? How many slaves were paralysed and crying out for help, trapped under masks, praying with sightless eyes for a miracle? It was clear to her now. All of them.

Monkey, however, was still listening to the screen and its sermon. "They have jobs. They have marriages. They bring up their children, their children go to schools. You have no schools. You have mechs." He did not know what a school was, but he knew that the images being shown to him were beautiful in the extreme. The thought of a place where each day was not a struggle for survival, where people were free to enjoy their lives without terror or despair; it was naturally the most appealing dream in the world.

Looking up into that large, magnified face, Monkey saw himself. He could not say what the connection was or why he felt it, but this man echoed a truth within his own heart, like a pebble being thrown into a deep pool of water. They shared the same dream. It was the closest he had ever come to discovering an identity. It seemed horrific to find it here, in the arms of slavery.

"Your world is a wasteland in which you fight to survive. Pyramid is a world in which you can  _live_ ," said the man, with infinite gentleness, as if he believed himself a messiah.

But Monkey had never been one for idle fantasy. He knew what had been done in this man's name. Surely dreams, such as he understood them, could not be found in slavery or submission. He took several steps forward. "But you are destroying this world for the sake of the old one."

He was close to the emaciated body now. High above, the voice of a Pyramid from the past echoed around the vast immaculate hall. "See for yourself. See what they have, before you take it away." And below, the true Pyramid, with sunken yellow skin and wires protruding from his back, more like a machine than a man, leaned forward, as though offering the mask from his face for Monkey to take.

"Go on.  _Go on._ Put on the mask."

Monkey took one step, then another, then another. Trip ran after him. "Monkey," she said, urgently. She knew her path: but she did not know his. She had never been more worried that their course might diverge, that they might be torn apart, that he might be taken away, might leave her, just when she needed him most.

"Just wait," he replied, curtly enough to concern her, but then his face softened a little and he regretted his brisk response. "Trust me."

Trip accepted that. She had to. They turned back to face the silent body at the control panel, a body which should have decayed away long ago. It stared back expectantly at them through black holes where no eyes could be seen.

They had come so far, and pushed so hard, and had  _given_  so much to get here, to complete their journey. They had given up Trip's father; given up her whole village; and a good man, a good brave man, had died so they might live. So many sacrifices, and each one weighed down like a rock in Trip's fist, solid and real. She could barely stand still for the shaking in her limbs. If she could only utilise those sacrifices, use the anger to inflame her… she could throw those rocks.

Monkey was inching his hand forward, then slipping the mask away from its owner's face. It came away with ease. Behind was a mass of wrinkles, almost more wrinkles than skin, but after a moment Trip realised that a face looked out from the wilting piece of flesh. There were lips, so puckered they could not taste, and eyes so sunken they could barely see. The face looked back at them. Perhaps its mouth was set with dignity and wisdom, perhaps the eyes were full of understanding, or perhaps the face could feel nothing any more. Monkey was not afraid. Somehow he understood: this was a part of himself.

Trip's eyes flickered away. It was hard to imagine what this man had experienced over the many years of his life. She felt a stab of distress, the throb of empathy, and was troubled by the thought that she might not be able to fulfil her task. She did not want to know this man, did not want to see that he was as human as she. It would be harder that way.

Monkey was not like Trip. Monkey had to know. He had to know what was within the mask. He had seen sudden flashing images, sounds and colour of a dead world, but it was not enough. He had to  _know_ what came before. Though it seemed impossible, he was a part of that world in some way. His ancestors had known it, as had Trip's, as had the ancestors of every one of the people who stood lined in this structure with them. They could not escape what had once been. The Old City, the mechs, the buildings and the machinery, the strange objects they found, all of it was a reminder. He could never rest until he knew. The phantoms had been following him long enough, so it was time for him to stop running.

As Trip watched on, he placed the mask upon his face.

Blinding white light at first, then shapes emerged, with movement, with form, with colour, with sound and taste and smell until an entire world was swimming in his head. Monkey had never imagined such things.

He supposed it was a strange irony. Had he never met Trip he might have looked into the mask and found nothing to captivate him. But now, because he  _had_ met her, because he had learnt from her the worth of community and friendship, his heart was open to the mask and its wonders. Without Trip, his odyssey would not have been complete. Without Trip, he would not be the man he was at that very moment, able to take a glimpse of all the beauty of a dead world, so very different to their own, vibrant, full of love and humanity, so many values which had died out in the wasteland, and to know that it was worth giving anything to try and recapture it. Now he understood the Old People and their cities. Now he understood Pyramid.

"Monkey?" Trip said. He was not listening. She was agitated, shifting on the spot. She wanted to place her hands on his arm and bring him back from wherever he had gone. "Monkey!" she called, louder this time. His back was turned to her, and the mask covered his face so she could not see his eyes. She was losing him.

"It's… it's beautiful," said Monkey.

Behind the mask was perfection. Behind the mask there was no death, no mechs, no destruction. It was so foreign to him, yet he recognised it, and welcomed it into his heart as a spirit might welcome heaven. Then, bursts of red. Static in his ears. The dream was dying. This world before him was dying, a second time, like it had done a hundred years before.

Monkey tore off the mask.

Trip was behind Pyramid. Blood was spurting from his back, black, thin, more like oil than blood. The creature was thrashing at the control panel where he sat. With a grunt Trip tugged at the wires attached to his skin, until they tore away uselessly, until the blood spurted everywhere in a black haze, across her, across the floor. She kept on tearing, pulling and tearing. Monkey could hear the man-machine dying. The lights in the huge vault began to sputter. The images on the walls were disappearing. The giant face on the screen shook, trembled, and was wiped away. Covering the platform was the blood of Pyramid, which gushed out in all directions. It seemed to dye the very air as it made contact, as the lights flickered, the brightness dimmed, and all the false purity of the ark was revealed. Trip gave one last tug. The ancient man writhed with the last vestiges of life, arms flailing, as his age-old body at last succumbed to the inevitable.

Trip was panting, gasping for breath. She could not stop staring at the dead thing.

Monkey took her by the shoulders, pulling her round, turning her away from the sight of what her determination had wrought.

"It's done," he said.

She did not want to look at him. Finally she glanced away from the wretched, twisted body, to the floor. Gently, he lifted her chin with his fingers.

"Did I do the right thing?"

She allowed her head to be raised, and raised her eyes as well. She met his gaze. She felt like they were seeing each other for the first time, properly this time, as free people with nothing to hide.

Monkey did not have an answer for her. He did not care about right or wrong. All that he had ever cared about was staying alive, and keeping her safe. These days he was mostly concerned with the latter. His headband flashed once and then deactivated, and all of a sudden, after all those weeks, he felt his brain clear and the press of subordination release itself. A wave of darkness swept across the floor below as thousands of slave headband switched off in turn.

He found himself staring into Trip's eyes, searching for something then. She did not shy away. Her hands were covered in sticky blackness, her heart was pounding with the terrible knowledge of what she had just done, but she felt a freedom inflating her chest. She had avenged her father's death. She had freed these people. And she had paid the price for her vengeance. Monkey wanted to capture that look in her eyes, for ever and ever. He had not felt this calm-minded in a long time; the calm made the future clear to him. What Trip needed now, what was resonating in her shattered glass stare, was him. She had been so brave, so strong, but there was terror in the look she gave him too, and it said  _don't leave me, Monkey_.  _Not now._ The headband was turned off, the mask finally removed. But his freedom did not make him want to escape - it made him want to never let go. In truth, he had already made his decision. Nothing that had happened here could change any of that. He remembered all they had shared, all the voiceless promises they had made, all she had taught him, and the way she felt in his embrace. He thought that perhaps he had known from the very moment they met. From the moment he first opened his eyes as a captive, in that archaic city, and saw her crouched in the corner, and knew, instinctively, even before he had acknowledged the headband and even before she had told him: he had known that things had changed forever. He thought of the Old People, who had ruled this land once before and who were so different from them. But not so different, surely. If Monkey could see their world, all they wished to achieve, and admire it, then perhaps humans were not so dissimilar, not so complex after all. He remembered warm nights and cold nights, sitting in the shadow of that immense past, wanting to carve his own future in this wasteland. Now he was truly free, free to choose his path. And what he chose was Trip.

Yes, the mask had been beautiful. But he had love here, he had humanity right here in his arms. Monkey did not need the memories of a dead world. She was the dream he wished to build. And they would build together, starting anew on the bones of everything that had come before.

As the slaves below them began to awaken, as row upon row of brainwashed minds were opened to the cold glow of synthetic lights and the even colder reality of truth and lies, Monkey wrapped his thick arms around Trip's shoulders and held her close.

 

**\- Fin -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read this far, if you have stayed with Mon Cœur Glacé till the very end, then I can only offer my sincerest of thanks. This may be the end of the story, but please, if you did enjoy it, let me know. I appreciate every comment I receive.
> 
> Monkey and Trip have been in my thoughts for a long time - I will be sad to see them go. But who knows? Perhaps I will return if a sequel is released. :) For now, if you're looking for more writing from me, take a look at my profile. It has been the greatest pleasure for me to write this fanfiction over the past couple of months, and I can only hope that you have enjoyed it as much as I. Thank you.


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